Sisterhood
by Her-Majesty-of-Mordor
Summary: We all hear tales of the great General Washington, of the of dashing young Marquis, of the courageous Paul Revere, but what of the everyday soldier? What of their wives, and mothers, and sisters, that supported their men unfailingly? Out of belief or necessity, these women were designated as laundresses, cooks, nurses, and yet remain consigned to oblivion. This is their story.


**Greetings and welcome, dear reader! This is a piece I originally wrote for my English class, but then I decided to publish it here, so if you've read this from a friend at school, this isn't plagiarism, I swear.**

 **I might just keep this as a one-shot, but if anyone wants me to continue and expand to the rest of the fandom, just speak the word.**

 **(P.S. I love all reviews—praise and criticism equally, so be sure to drop one off at the end!)**

 **Disclaimer: I unfortunately do not own the rights to Hamilton.**

* * *

 _The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper._

 _~ W.B. Yeats_

* * *

Two small girls huddled together over something—someone—in their family's drafty old barn. The year was 1762, the sixth year of the French and Indian War.

The older girl, a seven-year-old brunette, scrutinized the ragged soldier sleeping in their hayloft, as the younger one, a child with hair like corn silk around the age of five, rummaged through sleeping man's bag. "Lydia, look! He's from England!"

"You oughtn't look through other people's things, Eliza." Lydia Hayes scolded her younger siblings. Honestly, they were such a hassle sometimes. "Besides, Mother says he's to stay in the barn until he's better. Would you _really_ want him to catch you snooping? And you can't spy on an invalid!"

They both hushed and turned their heads to his bandaged stump of an arm. Eliza shuddered. "Do you think it hurt?"

Lydia shrugged in the manner only older siblings can when they pretend to know much more than they actually know. "Probably. It probably hurt a _lot._ Especially when the doctor had to cut it off. That's called an-pewtating—when you have to cut somebody's leg off, for medical purpose."

Eliza had seen that look too many times on her brothers' faces when they droned on about politics that they didn't understand, but shrewdly kept the observation to herself, opting instead to test out the new word. "An-pew-tating. That sounds funny. Are you sure that's how you say it?"

She nodded. "Most definitely. It's how Doctor Lee says it. And he's a _doctor._ "

"If you say so," Eliza hummed skeptically to herself. "But I think the arm was eaten by a bear! Or a sea monster."

Lydia waved her hand dismissively. "Like any proper soldier would be mauled by a _bear_."

That night, as the moon shone in through the windows onto her pale head of hair, Eliza nudged her sister awake. "Lydia, what if he's a mean soldier?"

Lydia groaned. "I was _asleep_."

"But what _if_? What if he was a Frenchman? Or an Indian?"

"Well, we have to take care of him anyway, don't we? Mother says that we should feed whoever's hungry, no matter what. _And_ we should help whoever's hurt, no matter what."

"But Lydia, what if he's _evil_? Like Uncle Jacob?"

Lydia sat up. "I don't think anyone is as bad as Uncle Jacob. _Anyone_ , 'Liza."

"But what if Uncle Jacob is starving, and had his leg shot off by a Frenchman?"

They both went silent at the thought. "Then, I guess we'd have to feed him and help him get better," Lydia replied slowly.

They were both silent again, pondering that dreaded possibility.

"I hope Uncle Jacob has plenty of food, and don't fight in a war," spoke the smaller one quickly.

"Me too," agreed the brunette decisively. "But still. Promise."

"Promise what?" demanded the five year old, not wanting to entrap herself in an accidental vow.

"To feed whoever is hungry and help whoever needs help," said Lydia, as if were the most obvious thing in the world. The two clustered together for warmth, and each word was punctuated with a shiver.

"But what if—"

" _Pro_ -mise, you'll do it."

"Alright, _fine_. I promise."

And so the two sisters grew, and amidst the quarrelling and squabbles of their family life, they kept that promise; when their oldest brother, John, tore open his leg climbing a tree, his sisters helped bandage it up, and the three swore never to tell their mother (she found out anyway, of course); when their smallest sibling, Levi, brought back an orphaned litter of kittens, the two sisters helped feed them and hide them in the barn. Their promise was intact, and that was what mattered to them.

When talk of a revolution came around, the girls agreed to go to both armies, if ever the need arose—Lydia would work as a nurse with the rebels, and Eliza would work as a nurse with the King's men.

A few years passed, and a revolution did break out. The sisters parted ways, vowing to keep their pact, and meet again.

Their family met again at Christmas, and everything was different.

Eliza had become extremely vocal about the "traitorous rebels," and Lydia, who in turn nursed some bruised feelings against the British, gave vent to her feelings on the "tyrannical, power-hungry, Tories."

They fought.

It hadn't always been like this, hadn't always been about the War. Once, Lydia remembered, there had been a time when their family had been able to gather without anything sparking a flame to burst into an entire new dispute, when their mother could smile without the weight of the world behind her eyes, when their family was united as a whole against all adversity…

"Lydia!" called the doctor's assistant. But those days were past, and Lydia refused to think of her last encounter with her sister. "You're needed in the medical tent!" It was Christmas Eve once more, and though Valley Forge was a food-less, god-forsaken corner of the world, she would not let that ruin everything. She straightened up, and headed towards the hospital tent. There was work to do.

* * *

Lydia was awoken with the very distinct feeling of someone's foot in her side. Groaning, she sat up, and rubbed the drowsiness from her eyes. The sun had not yet risen, and there was loud shouting from outside. First coming to camp, she had had to learn how to sleep through the feverish groaning and occasional scream from an unfortunate amputee that came from the medical tent. The year was now 1780; it was her fourth year as a nurse. When, exactly, she couldn't tell, but people rarely had specifics for anything these days, especially in the camp of the Continental Army. They were somewhere in South Carolina, supposedly tracking a company of the King's men.

Lydia dressed herself quickly, stepped out, strode into the medical tent, and stopped short at the amount of men already there. "What happened?" She asked, working with a rather matronly nurse, Marianne (a notorious gossip), over a soldier who desperately needed stitches.

"There was a skirmish last night," said Marianne grimly, threading a needle. "The patrol had a bit of a nasty nasty run-in with some Redcoat scouts—we might've taken some prisoners. They say we're to move before noon."

The girl glanced up sharply. "Before noon? That's impossible! Look at how many people are in need of treatment!"

"Not so loud!" Marianne stole a quick look around the overcrowded makeshift hospital, and lowered her voice. "It's just a rumour! Anyway, between you and me, I hope our boys thrash them Brits!" She was a camp-follower, with a husband serving in the army.

Lydia took in the scene in front of her, mentally tallying up the seriously ill or injured men. "Marianne, I don't think that's going to happen…"

Marianne snorted as she cleaned the man's wound. "Hayes, you need to have more faith in these men; they—"

Someone burst into the tent. "The general says to be ready to move before noon! Quickly, pack everything you need—anything you don't, leave behind!" The poor errand boy took off to relay his message to others. They could hear the order echoing around camp as others spread the word.

Marianne turned to Lydia, alcohol-soaked rag still in her hand. "What did I tell you? Don't doubt my sources, child!"

The brunette raised her hands in surrender. "Alright, alright! Never again will it happen," she laughed. Then the two remembered their situation. "So, how are we going to move all these men?"

* * *

In the end, the doctor had managed to acquire a wagon for the medical supplies and the patients who were unable to walk. A few nurses took turns riding the back of the wagon. They continued on until late that night, without pausing for a meal, stopping at a river and setting an encampment there. As soon as the tents were up, she crawled under her blankets and collapsed.

It was the sound of gunfire and screaming that arose Lydia from her sleep. A wide-eyed soldier—no more than a child, really—burst into the hospital tent, dragging his whimpering friend, who was pulling frantically at his arm, hanging on by no more than a piece of skin and fragment of bone. "It's the Brits!" shouted the first boy. "They've attacked us on—"

He never finished his sentence. A hail of fire poured down, and everyone who could, dropped down for cover. He and his friend were riddled with bullets. She crawled over to what remained of them, and snatched their muskets and powder horns. A second shower of the deadly rain punctured the shocked silence in the tent, and she dove for shelter. Through her stricken panic, Lydia recognized Marianne's face, terror gleaming in her eyes as she snatched a musket from Lydia, who tossed the other one to the doctor. "If we can make it to the woods, we'll be fine," he shouted, levelheaded, despite the whistling of bullets outside. A cannon fired in the distance.

Marianne stared disbelievingly. "So, what then?" She demanded. "We just leave everyone? My husband? Brother?"

"Marianne, please, not now," snapped the doctor, gripping his musket tighter.

"Fine," she growled, shifting her weight from foot to foot nervously. "But we have to move the hospice there."

The doctor conceded reluctantly, and they hauled out the few surviving patients up the hills into the trees. Their makeshift hospital became a disorganised mess; chaos reigned. Lydia was fairly sure that they had given up on identifying the side of the soldiers that they were saving—all she knew was that the amount of patients they had had doubled, but so had the amount of nurses. In fact, Lydia was positive that more than half of these women were from the British camp, but nurses were nurses, and she doubted that the Rebel soldiers cared.

Hurrying forth, Lydia helped the other girl pull a soldier, who had had his arm practically shot off—to safety—whether he was a Rebel or Redcoat mattered not; it wasn't like the uniform was in a telling condition, not to mention the poor man himself. They worked quickly and silently to pull off his coat; she held him down, as he writhed in agony, and the unknown blonde gingerly tugged off the sleeve. As the other girl worked, Lydia studied the other girl's movement, her mannerisms, her expressions; something tugged at the back of her mind—she seemed familiar, but Lydia could not quite set her finger on it…

Their work was finished; the nurse turned to go. "Wait!" Lydia cried out, before stopping herself. This was a nurse of the King's—they couldn't possibly know each other, but the words slipped out anyway, unbidden. "Do I know you?"

The blonde froze, and turned around to give Lydia a hesitant shake of the head, before disappearing into the fray.

* * *

The battle was over; the British had been victorious. Hundreds of the Rebel men had been captured; scores more lay dead scattered about camp, and Lydia could only thank God that she was not among them. Marianne had been trampled next to her husband—the two lay as quietly as if they had been sleeping, save for their matted hair and clothes, and crushed bodies.

There was no time to mourn; those who survived needed more help than those who did not. The British commander had given them but twenty-four hours to vacate the camp, and fourteen of them were already passed. She caught sight of a pale man kneeling before the body of a woman lying in the grass, hair like corn silk...

 _Eliza,_ whispered some unconscious part of her mind. _It must be her._ It couldn't possibly be her little sister. She made her way over to the man, every step heavier than before. "The girl," began Lydia, taking a deep breath, "who was she? What was her name?"

He looked up uncomprehending, through glassy tears.

She tried again. "Who was the woman? What's her name?" She regretted the question as soon it came into the air between them.

The man struggled to get his words out. "She was my wife, and her name was Eliza Wilson. Used to be Elizabeth Hayes."

Lydia's heart nearly stopped. It couldn't be the same Eliza Hayes. It was a common name! She grasped at straws and gulped frantically for air. She looked down at the girl's body. She had known, all along, hadn't she? It wasn't the same Eliza. Eliza was vivacious, lively, vibrant, and—and—

"Lydia!" someone called. "Come on!"

There was no time to mourn.


End file.
